


Unmade

by Kayzo



Series: Subvert [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Godstiel: Castiel as God, Season/Series 06, romantic undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayzo/pseuds/Kayzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling apart at the seams, unraveling. All gods fall down at some point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmade

“No.”

It’s a small, insignificant word. One that should mean nothing to Him as He now is, but it is one that stills even the souls inside of Him.

“No?” Incomprehensible. The souls shift, move agitatedly within Him. They do not like this man made of flesh, held together by determination threaded through with grace. The souls call for movement. They want to leave; think of all the people He can save, surely these few are not worth the many. But He strikes them down, dismissing the idea with a harsh though. The souls recede but simmer. He does not notice.

“No.”

Those violent green eyes are demanding. The human was always so demanding. Demanding help. Demanding information. Demanding explanation. His hand is raised before He thinks it, but when Dean Winchester hits the wall hard, the other two making an aborted move to go to him before He strips them of their voices and ability, a thrill goes through the souls and He feels validated.

He walks slowly over to the frail human, watches closely as he struggles to sit up. The hurt that flashes in his eyes makes the corner of His mouth pull up. When they turn jade and hard He frowns and flicks His hand, making the boy fly into another wall, plaster falling around him like snow.

“I am everything.” The souls’ smug satisfaction is annoying, He dismisses them again, “You are worthless.”

“Then why don’t you kill me Cas?” his voice is rough and meant to anger Him, He knows, “if I’m so worthless and you’re so awesome, huh? What am I doing alive? How ‘bout this; you _can’t_ kill me because I’m still God’s little toy soldier and even high on soul juice you’re still just a scared angel on an ego trip, so fucking full of himself—” Dean goes flying into the opposite wall.

“I am _merciful_.” His voice stay calm, the souls leech out the anger, the desperation and the fear, feed on it.

“You are alive because I am merciful.”

The broken body before Him spits out blood, gives a dry, humorless laugh, “I’d rather have the big Guy who didn’t give a fuck.”

The souls flare up like a gasoline fed fire, ready to eat away at the forests in the boy’s eyes. He notices a trickle of blood on the boy’s temple. He leans down, the boy does not flinch. He heals him, benevolent always, even to those who oppose him the most.

“I am good”

The souls agree, disjointedly and hurriedly ready to fly away on wings of righteous intent but again He stops them. It is not them that need to concede. It is the single soul in front of him, the one He saved before He was great. The frail man does not look gracious as the forgiven and the healed should and He falters.

“You’re confused, Cas.”

His anger grows. The souls’ anger turns towards him. _This man is insignificant_ , they say, _worthless, leave him to rot._ He does not hear them.

“I am not that worthless angel, that powerless coward who you led around like a dog at your beck and call. He let himself be used by the likes of _you…_ _He_ is the useless and confused one. _I_ am _God_.” The souls are happy again, feeding on the self-mutilating inadequacies the littlest angel could never overcome. They surge through his veins with new found vigor. A long dry lake fills with water.

The souls sooth him, _yes_ , they whisper (He thinks for an instant that they sound like Eve), _you were less than nothing but we came and made you everything. Rejoice._

He turns, he has wasted too much time here; His flock is in need.

The frail man must sense it, “No!” he seems to struggle for words, “I know I’ve…I mean, I’m not the best at—” he runs a hand over his healed face, already taking for granted his new God’s mercy, “you’re not worthless, Cas. You’re awesome and funny and always _there_ when I’ve needed you most and, damn it, I took it for granted, abused your trust in me, but Cas, you’ve never been worthless or some dog to us, you know that.” There’s conviction there.

He is stuck for a moment, both dreading and wanting to turn around, to see those eyes alight with something that isn’t anger at Him. The souls say _no_ , and now, now that they’ve found that small angel inside him who has never been good enough, he won’t (can’t?) disagree.

“Cas is dead.”

AIDS is cured.

* * *

 

People rejoice. They sing praises to their new Savior. The world is alive again.

He hates them all a little bit.

Or maybe it’s the souls, He does not know. What He does know is that there is nothing left for the brothers to hunt. Evil is gone. The world is pure as the Garden once was. But the souls still push for action. They wish for better, always better. Whenever the new God tires, the praise Him and love Him and He keeps going (anything for love). When He gets too proud, to joyous, they remind Him of all His mistakes before He was perfect.

Dean never prays to Him.

* * *

 

He is so, so tired. Never before has He been this tired. The souls cajole Him onward but He does not move.  They comfort Him, coddle Him, promise, promise all will be well, just one more thing to do.  For His followers. When that does not rouse Him they turn angry, fighting inside Him, demanding more, demanding never to be still.

He cannot please them.

They see it, they see that He is done, He is useless to them. They spite Him, retract their love and fill Him with their hate. His selfishness has killed the world, they say. The taste of loathing is left in His mouth as they leave Him, abandoning Him like a shirt that is warn through and torn, never really that good to begin with.

The new God dies. Not with a bang, but in silence. There’s wetness on his cheeks.

* * *

 

His heart is not beating.

This should concern him. He forces it to start, every pump of blood an arduous task that he does not feel fit to fulfill. His bones feel like splinters and he cannot muster the energy to blink. When it starts to rain, he likes to think that the world is crying for the loss of its new God.

The broken angel breaks a bit further, curls into a ball on his side, small as he can, and cries. The ashen wings around him wash away.

Later (seconds, days, years), there is a sound. A rumble that reminds him of the hiss and growl of demons as he fought through hell for Dean (his throat tightens, he chokes on a sob). The sounds stay behind him and then there are more sounds—metal hitting metal, boots crunching gravel. He curls in on himself more.

“Hey Cas.”

Castiel, Angel of the Lord who found a broken soul in the depths of hell, who rebelled against heaven and saved the world, who killed his brothers, who fought Raphael’s attempt to restart the apocalypse, who ingested souls from purgatory, who lost everything then lost it again, who did everything for the right reasons, who does not know _what_ he is, let alone _who_ , that Castiel, that Cas, he rolls on his back and croaks out, raspy and dry, “Dean.”

When Dean and Sam take him to the Impala, Sam at the wheel while Dean tends to him, Cas wonders if he’s worth saving.

There’s a pressure on his temple. The ‘Always’ is whispered into his skin.

Cas lets himself sleep.


End file.
